


Control

by AnotherLoser



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Control Issues, Drabble, Hurt Stiles, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:39:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherLoser/pseuds/AnotherLoser
Summary: “Why do you do this to yourself?”“Better me than someone else.”-Just a short sort of analysis? Of Stiles and self harm.





	Control

“ _Why do you do this to yourself?_ ”

“Better me than someone else.” Because there always was a someone else. Something else. “Better this than something else.” Because there hadn’t always been someone else.

Back when this little habit started the closest thing to risking his life Stiles ever got was picking fights he knew he’d lose at school, and those were few and far between. When it started he didn’t know that monsters were real besides the human variety he had still only heard of, no matter the detail.

Back then it was just him and his father and his best friend, but mostly him and his friend because his father was either gone or upset in one way or another, because he lost the love of his life and didn’t know how to raise an overactive child on his own, didn’t know how to tell him it would be okay convincingly enough to actually comfort him. He might not have even known how badly his son might need him around because Stiles already knew how to use the stove before she died and once he stopped searching for more attention he made all of his own meals and some for his dad too. He cooked, he cleaned( _he rewarded himself for the most boring chores with video games_ ), and he even dug through the mail first to make sure the bills weren’t overdue. He made himself easy to forget at home, and when his friend asked how things were he’d talk and talk and talk until the subject was forgotten and he felt better.

Over two years had gone by, he was turning twelve soon and he had just buzzed his hair down for the first time a week prior because talking and talking and talking worked to make things better with Scott but racing thoughts when he was alone made his heart race and guilt wrap around him like a straight jacket. Thinking of how she died, how his dad still cried sometimes, how she was right, she wasn’t crazy she was right it’s all my fault– and how he can’t go to Scott’s because Melissa was a single parent too and they had their own problems probably not much unlike the Stilinski’s and he couldn’t keep adding on by being another mouth to feed, another kid to worry about, and when he couldn’t breathe he’d tug and yank on his hair until his head throbbed but slowly it would fade, become a gentler, rhythmic pulling instead until he could stop entirely.

And then he shaved it all off, because he was tired of pulling and tired of being anxious and of hating his own home, but getting rid of the hair didn’t stop the need to pull.

When it’s starts he’s exhausted. He didn’t pull on anything. There’s red lines on his neck were short, dull nails dragged across the skin a few times but no harm was done. He was exhausted, and while he caught his breath he stared at his skinny wrists where he could faintly see his veins through the pale flesh. He poked and traced and then got up to finish his homework, and when he went to bed he was just as tired still and couldn’t stop tracing parts of his body imagining something else, so he got back up and grabbed his pocket knife from his desk.

The next morning he’d shower and look at the five shallow, paper thin little cuts on his arms and let the water run hot while absently finding comfort in the sting. _“I did this.”_

For a while it was often, then less so, and less and less until he hardly did it at all. He kept his hair short because it was easy and free to manage at home and he kind of liked the feeling of running his hand over it- not because of some fear he’d start ripping it out again. He learned to call Scott when bad feelings started because even if he couldn’t bring himself to mooch off of his family, it was easier to deal with if he could talk to his friend when he started getting anxious.

He learned some ways to cope, and it helped the rate of incidences. The fact that his father barely touched the liquor anymore, and that he started to actually listen again after asking him about his day as school might have something to do with it as well.

But now there were monsters, supernatural ones and human alike. Even that hadn’t been so bad at first, because he and his friend were a team and despite the changes that came with a werewolf in his life it still felt simple enough to process and keep moving. The ways he reassures himself didn’t last long in retrospect.

Soon enough it was terrifying and complicated and frustrating and he had nightmares about burning flesh and angry howls and someone’s grandfather torturing his classmates in front of him before taking him to the woods to rid of him as well. He can practically feel the wedge being driven between him and his father again every time he has to lie to him about it. He feels useless again next to other monsters and wolves and even his best friend because they could shake it off when they were attacked and Stiles feels sick when he sees the bruises he’s gotten in the shower later.

Soon enough, it was like everything around him could turn and kill him. Break his bones with the flick of a wrist, but he can take it.

He can handle pain.

He does it to himself. When he does it’s his. His to have and his to control, and his tool for controlling his thoughts.

He’s careful about it, more now than ever. There could be emergencies in the middle of the night, or a random visit, or he could just be forgetful in the morning and he can’t afford to smell like blood and bandages.

He covers it with disinfectant and lathers his hands in sanitizer just to be safe. Every cut is cleaned carefully once he’s done with the moment, only ever placed in the same specific areas as always; his inner arm above the elbow, just above or below his hips, sometimes around his ankles. All relatively easy to keep out of sight, even in the locker rooms if he keeps his timing the same as it’s been for the past several years, because even when he wasn’t actively doing it there were still scars someone might notice. Some raised, some not, all a bit tricky to find on his already pale skin unless they were fresh. Red and healing pink stands out, but the white of the permanent marks doesn’t as much. He’s only partly grateful.


End file.
